


The Dragon's Storm

by 1800areyouslapping



Series: Commissions [8]
Category: Overwatch (Video Game)
Genre: Dragon!Hanzo, F/M, Happy Ending, Romance, Teratophilia, dragon boyfriend, slight angst
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-04
Updated: 2018-12-04
Packaged: 2019-09-06 22:43:28
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,470
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16841911
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/1800areyouslapping/pseuds/1800areyouslapping
Summary: Commission for Gal Pals Anon ❤⃛ヾ(๑❛ ▿ ◠๑ )! This fic is in the same world setting at the last commission I did for her: “The Dragon’s Bride”. You’re a girl living in a studio Ghilibi-esk AU. It’s not uncommon for you to find drunk men lying in the streets. The man you do find lying in the streets, however, is not like any man you’ve ever met.





	The Dragon's Storm

Ice plums from your mouth as you sigh, taking notice of a drunk man. Both sitting and slumped over, on the side of the building being used as a shelter for victims of the ‘storm’ that ruined mountainside homes about a year ago now. One of those victims being yourself. He’s not the first drunk man to end up out on his butt in the streets. Wives here tend to throw them out, some get so drunk they can’t make it home before the alcohol takes their ability to walk.

Sad men, these men. And you are, unfortunately, a compassionate and guilt-ridden woman. Stubborn as you are, you can’t leave them. By now the shelter has a spare room or two. Over time a few citizens found new places to stay, some families took the ‘storm’ as a sign. A sign they should move on from their small village, so they packed up and left on a journey to one of the new age cities.

The drunk is usually someone you know. You know their name, where they live, their kids’ names, their wife’s name. Meaning you’ll be happy to tell their wives if they decide to get a little randy with you. 

The rain’s a blessing. Good for the crops, good for the forest, good for its inhabitants. Is it the most convenient weather? No, it certainly isn’t. It makes the streets slippery, muds up the gutters, and you can’t go anywhere without your umbrella. The rain means you’re going to be one hand down, and with far less traction usually afforded to you when you help drunk men into the shelter.

As you get closer to the drunk man, you’re damning yourself even more for your whims. He’s– _muddy_. Which mean two things: you’ll have to bathe him, and he’s going to track a mess. Standing over him you realize that you don’t recognize this man. His clothes, his face covered with dirt. A tattoo on his arm you’ve never seen, unique and definitely something you’d remember if you’d seen it before.

You squat and hook your arm under his own. “Come on!” you yell over the pouring rain. “Let’s get you inside! And get you warm!”

He’s responsive to you, stumbling to his feet. You snatch up his soiled ribbon as it falls off his head. Nearly chose to let it fall, but a sudden urge propelled your hand forward. You guide the stranger along with you. One careful, slippery step after the other. With him putting far too much of his weight on you and tripping over his own feet, it’s a total miracle that you make it without a fall.

“Sir, I don’t live alone,” you say between breaths. “So don’t try anything, you’ll get your ass kicked.”

He grunts, mumbles something too full of grain for you to understand, but you detected the sass none the less. After a rough, painful stumble on the way to the washroom, you realized that his shoulders are broad. Very broad. And you have a short reach. Find that wrapping your arm around his waist gives you far better hold and leverage.

You get him into the communal bathing room, sit him down on the stool. Run out saying, “Take your clothes off! Throw them on the floor by the door, I’ll do my best to save them!”

You’re pleased to find a pot of water already boiling over the hearth. Come back to find his clothes are in a heap as you had requested. You scoop up his clothes in one arm. You stop and stare for a moment. Just a brief stare and a little heat coming to your cheeks as you have a naked man with a nice body fiddling for… a little too long with your water spout. One hand holding himself up on the wall. The other pulling, twisting, tugging until he finally gets the water to flow into the basin just underneath it.

“Oh, hold on!” you say. “I’ll get you hot water from the kettle.”

You hurry to the washroom, throw his clothes down by one of the scrub boards. You notice that his clothes are… nice. Dirty but lavish. What you’d give to sit down with the seamstress who sewed these clothes. Perfect, mesmerizing embroidery on the sleeve. Details on the pants look painstakingly weaved. Strong stitchwork like you’ve seen a few times before. And the— _colors_. Rich blues, glittery silvers, and the bright gold that makes up most of the scarf; only royalty wears colors like these.

With clothes like this, he’s not homeless…perhaps newly homeless? No royalty lives here in the village; you’d know, every citizen would know. The streets are rife with gossip. No royalty’s visiting either. A visit from royalty’s led by festivals, and shows, and parades, even in the pouring rain.

Off in the washroom, water splashes. A cascade of it, like the man’s dumping the basin over his head.

“Oh! Sir!” You drop his clothes, rush to grab the kettle from over the fire. “Sir! The water’s ice cold! Are you mad?!”

You grab the kettle and take it back with you. “Give that to me.” Walking into the room you take the partially filled basin. You put the basin on the floor, dip a few fingers into the water just to vindicate your feelings. But it’s– _warm_. The water is warm! You side eye the man, wondering how ice cold rain water from outside warmed up without hot water from the kettle. You pour the hot kettle water into it anyway. Top off the basin with water from the pump and test that water as it flows. Find that it’s as cold as you expected the water to be.

Now you’re really side-eyeing him.

“Here.” You hand the bucket back to him, get a good look at his face for the first time. Astounding bone structure, dark brown eyes. A plush frown, framed by a dark black beard, matching his hair. With the exception of the silver, wing-like sideburns. He’s handsome, even with all the lines of dirty water flowing down over his cheeks.

You lean forward slightly, gradually getting closer and closer to his face. Squint as you wonder why you feel you know him. You swear you’ve never seen him in your life. Yet there’s a nagging sense of familiarity about him.

He raises a brow, sways forward. “Can I help you?”

You don’t falter at his gruff tone. Tilt your head to the side, thinking. Humming as you tug on a lock of his hair still riddled with dirt. “I’ll get a comb,” you say, looking briefly down at his crotch, “and a towel while I’m at it.“

You come back quick. He’s effortlessly pouring the full sloshing basin of water over his left shoulder. Water streams and drapes over his broad back and dribbles down his tattooed arm.

You throw the towel over his lap and get to combing his hair. Gently working the grime out of his hair, smoothing it all back as you go. Running your fingers through his silky locks and shaking out the water. You find after it’s all smoothed out that it hovers just above his shoulders. You do the same with his facial hair, holding his chin firmly in one hand you run the comb through his beard until you’re satisfied with its cleanliness.

Cupping his face you search for specs of dirt that may have gotten past you. He begins to lean into your touch, catches your gaze and you find yourself frozen. Your heart races, breathing quickens. He’s got the most intense stare, trapping. Abruptly, he looks away, stares at the floor, leaving you dizzy.

“Look how far I’ve fallen,” he says, eyeing the dirt flowing with the draining water. “An embarrassment… I am better than this.”

You shrug. “You’re already on your way back up,” you say. “How much did you have to drink anyway?”

He grunts. “Three barrels… or was it four?”

You scoff. If he had drunk that much he’d be half dead. Passed out on your floor instead of leisurely washing himself off. Not even the biggest, burliest men sporting giant beer bellies, and gnarley scars can walk off a barrel of the kind of sake that is crafted around here (you’ve witnessed it first hand). 

You grab him spare clothes, offer to show him to his room when he complains that he’s hungry. You are too, so you show him to the kitchen area instead. Sit him down at the table and begin making a meal. Feeling his eyes follow you through every little thing you do. The bright fireplace light illuminates his handsome face, makes you feel more and more flustered.

You break the silence, realizing you never asked him his name. “What’s your name?” you ask him as you chop your scallions and drop whole eggs into a boiling pot.

“My name is Hanzo.”

You purse your lips. “An unfortunate name; no offense.”

“Why is my name unfortunate?”

You raise an eyebrow at him, feeling the heat rise in your chest. “You seem like an educated man, surely you know who you’re named after.” It’s not uncommon. Many baby boys end up named after him. Not everyone has a bone to pick with the dragon like you do, some merely think he’s a work of fiction. 

“I do.” He waves away the mention of the god, sits back and crosses his arms across his chest. “Dragons are mere superstition, what does it matter if I share the name of a fairytale creature?” 

“No wonder,” you say. “Which new age town do you hail from?”

You stir the pot with the noodles and add more seasoning to the broth. Knowing now that he’s just like all the new agers who passes through your town, nearly earns him a swift kick in the ass and a night on the streets. 

When you look back at him he seems genuinely confused, like you asked a hard question. “Did you hear me?” you ask. “Where do you call home?”

“What did the Southwind dragon do to earn your scorn?” he asks.

You completely stop what you’re doing, point your stirring spoon at him. “Answer my question, please.”

“I have no home,” he says. “I’ve wondered for most of my life, wasn’t brought up to believe in dragons or anything of the like.” 

Vague, a little sad. You suppose that explains it. You’re not incapable of compromise so you let it go and answer his question. 

“The Southwind dragon and his brother ruined half the village, completely destroyed my childhood home,” you say, pointing towards the mountainside that backs your town. “All of the homes up on that mountain there are piles of rubble. People have gone hungry trying to rebuild, gotten hurt.”

You assemble the ramen. Noodles, broth, eggs, and scallions. Hover over the bowls remembering what it was like to stand under two giant dragons fighting to the death.

“No one understands,” you say. “Not unless you were there. The gods had come from their realm and chose to battle in ours. It wasn’t simply the worst storm of our history.”

You continue to tell the story in further detail. Tell him about how terrifying it was. The dragons roared so loud. They darkened the sky, and the storm they created together was terrible. The beating wind, thanks to the Northwind dragon. Bright lighting and the booming thunder that accompanied it, the Southwind dragon. You tell him how you were almost struck by lightning, it hit a tree instead. You inherited that house from your parents. Maybe one day you could afford to have it rebuilt, but that’s a far, far away dream.

As you place his bowl in his hands you say, “To make matters worse, none of the new age towns will help us rebuild. The damage is real, but our story isn’t just right. So they have no able bodies to lend.” The resources are all around, the tools easily borrowed from each other. It’s time, skill, and labor that is lacking and expensive. “That—Hanzo, is why the dragons have earned my scorn. Questions?”

“Which house was yours?”

“Uh,” you pause for a moment, blanking on its location. “The one furthest one up the mountain, at the end of the winding trail.”

Other than a hum and his brief condolences, he has nothing else to say and lets the conversation die. Content with letting it die, you sit across for him and start digging in, you’re starving.

“I am… deeply sorry.” He looks you in the eyes while he says it, they look so clear, yet so burdened. 

“For what?” you ask.

He pushes the bowl away from him, untouched. “For wasting your time, your food, and your energy.” He stands up and takes his dirty clothes from beside your wash bin. “I am not hungry.” Hanzo bows to you before turning around to leave. “Thank you for the hospitality.”

“You’re leaving?”

“Yes.”

“It’s raining! It’s dark!” You hop up and chase after him as he slides open your door. “At least put on your shoes!”

He steps out into the rain. Rain, that is pouring so hard it looks like a wall of water. Hitting so hard it’s hard to hear anything but it. You stand in the doorway watching him walk off, soiled clothes and shoes under his arm and a downpour on top of his head. You’re not going after him, not with this weather. He looks back once as he rounds the corner, you try and wave him back inside, to no avail.

Stepping back inside you’re at a loss for thoughts or words, you know several people who’d love to hear about his. Thinking you’ll never see the mysterious man again, you sit and eat both the bowls of ramen. 

* * *

Well, you heard of him again. You woke up the next morning and went about your routine as usual. When you set out in order to head to work (a small but popular restaurant) you find that the Sun is out. The streets are already bustling, people are gossiping, and one of your nosy, but well-meaning roommates is out assessing the day.

“Caught a weird one last night, did you?” he says a matter of factly.

“Yeah,” you say, wondering when he poked his head out of his room and saw the man. “He was a strange one.”

“Something wrong with him?” he asks.

You laugh; you couldn’t rightly say. “Don’t know!” you say. “Didn’t get a chance to ask him before he left.”

“Didn’t leave, he’s still here.” He points up towards the mountain. “Been working on your old home all night, ask anyone if you don’t believe me.” 

“I will,” you say absentmindedly. You walk away, crash into someone because you are too busy staring up at the mountain as if you could see him from here.

You could go up the mountain and see for yourself, but you’re already close to being late, so you’ll have to check during a slow period. Even the elderly couple who runs the restaurant is talking about the strange man on the mountain. Mrs. Ieyori thinks Hanzo’s dreamy and went all the way up the mountain this morning just to bring him tea, coffee, and pastries. Mr. Ieyori gripes about nearly killing herself for some stranger. She lets him know she’s stronger than wet mountain terrain and demands he stop being dramatic. You keep your opinions and your giggles to yourself.

There’s no difference between the morning and lunch rush. Both are equally as busy and you see the same faces that were there for breakfast in the afternoon, you’ll see the same faces at dinner time. During the time between late afternoon and early evening, there’s a lull. Mrs. Ieyori tasks you with taking food and drink to what’s now people and not just a single man on the mountain. 

You drop off food to a couple of families working hard to get their felled home rebuilt together. A good fifteen-minute hike later, you’re coming up on your own personal pile of rubble, shocked by what you see. There’s still a pile of rubble, yes. But it’s organized rubble. The foundation of your home’s visible. Huge heavy trees that split your home in half gone. Other boulders and impossible to move debris out of the way.

Leagues better than it looked the last time you saw it. With the sheer size of the things that had fallen on your home, all the foliage that had blown over it, maybe a small miracle happened. Your little plot of land doesn’t look so hopeless anymore.

You don’t find him right away. At first, it seems he abandoned his work. Turns out he’s behind your home. Laying out in the middle of a patch of sun, asleep. Shirtless, arm thrown over his face. You stand there in utter shock, gawking at him. Seeing Hanzo in the broad daylight causes you to blush, your heart to race. Beside yourself, because you don’t understand why he’s helping you, or just how much he intends to help you with.

Quietly you set the food down next to him. Unwanting to wake him in order to ask him questions, you scribble a note down on a napkin using a piece of charcoal. You have to get back. The note pleads with him to come down from the mountain and join the crowd at dinner time, to use one of the spare rooms in the shelter if he needs somewhere to sleep. You take your leave back down the mountain.

Hours pass. To your pleasant surprise, he does join. When he walks into the room, everybody goes silent before fervent whispers take silence’s place. It’s a small restaurant, with a small menu, and doesn’t have room for any one person to have their own table to themselves. The regular crowd doesn’t care. They’re here for good food, good drink, and open ears. They want to chat, want to eat, and want to go home a little tipsy. Nobody comes here to eat alone.

Except maybe Hanzo. He looks around at the place looking more and more like a lost child looking for his mother. Excited he showed and eager to get him into a seat, you approach and unthinking… take his hand. You guide him to a table with an available seat and demand that he sit. You ask him what he’d like, and he says whatever the cook is most proud of, easy.

Now he’s surrounded by the town’s tailors. Mostly women, with one man. Tailoring being their life, some of them have measuring tape slung around their neck; old, frayed, and handmade. A newcomer is exciting for them. They get to throw bets around before they take his measurements. The person who misses the mark the most pays for dinner. 

He stays until closing time. You walk with him out and stand at the base of the trail leading up into the mountain.

“Would you mind telling me what your plans are?” you ask. “For my plot of land, specifically.”

“I’m rebuilding your home,” he says as if you should have known that already.

“You-you’re building me a– _house_?”

“Yes.”

“By yourself?”

“Yes.”

“Why?”

“A favor, for a favor.”

You open your mouth to protest how ludacris that is, but only say, “Well… thank you.” Under no stretch of your imagination do you think that your good deed was equal to the good deed that he says he’s going to do. Whether he follows through or ends up disappearing in the near future, you’re still thankful. 

* * *

He doesn’t disappear. His presence becomes the new normal. Hanzo joins for dinner every night. As people grow fonder of him, some go out of their way to make room for the new carpenter in town.

At times it feels like he’s not from your world. In fact, the longer he stays and the more he rebuilds your home, the more you’re convinced he’s not from your world. He refuses help. Truthfully, he doesn’t need it; that’s evidence enough against him. Sure your normal run of the mill man could build a house on his own, but certainly not as fast as Hanzo’s building yours. Sometimes you look into his eyes and it feels like you’re staring at time itself. More time than his appearance would allude too. Other times he acts like such a newborn, blubbering baby you forget all about the captivating nature of his eyes. 

He doesn’t bother to try and hide his peculiar strength. He has muscles– big muscles. Nothing that explains the feats of astounding strength and endurance he displays while he works. You stick around and watch him (when you have time). Often with Mrs. Ieyori who doesn’t seem to care that his physical abilities are far from that of your average man, and only cares about the ‘show’.

Mrs. Ieyori loves cat calling him. Hanzo’s hard-focused and lets the playful comments roll off his bare, well-defined back…most of the time. However, when you chime in with a particularly cheeky comment, it tends to make him grin, which eggs you on. You don’t see a smile on that man’s face often enough.

You adore the far and few between smiles… even the regular, grumpy hard line of his mouth… his sharp eyes… the way he comes to you for every human thing he can’t quite figure out for himself. You look forward to the regular late-night dinners at the shelter, where he doesn’t leave you to clean his plate anymore. He eats your food and enjoys it. Praises you for the effortless skill you have in cooking. He asks about the ‘storm’ often. Wishing to learn about every little detail.

The only thing these days that gets under your skin are your dreams. Dreaming for you never used to be so vivid, so rememberable, or consistently feature one of the dragons that tore down your home. You’ve ignored him countless times. To the point that the dragon retreats into the depths of your dream state and paints you nice visions to pass your night away peacefully. 

It’s an insane form of wish fulfillment, it has to be. You refuse to believe that the dragon just happened to overhear your gripe (one amongst many). And decided to try gaining your forgiveness.

Regardless of your skepticism, you won’t let your heightened dream state go to waste anymore. Not matter if you’ve really got a remorseful Southwind dragon visiting your dreams, or if it’s something you’ve been eating lately that has him under your harsh eye. Close enough to hear you. Infuriating enough to beat the hell out of. Unsettlingly real. The beast is going to hear every last thing you have to say. 

The god sits as you yell. Towering over you, poised. Watching you like a stone cold statue. Whiskers and fur blowing in the wind that isn’t there. Every little thing about him erks you. So high and mighty. Acting like nothing you’re saying matters in the least to him. Looking down on you like the lowly human you’re sure he thinks you are.

You pause in the middle of your rant. “You are so smug. Do you care?”

This visibly took the beast aback. _“Afraid you have lost me,” he_ says, too deep and inhuman.Words not coming from his mouth, it’s wafting through your brain and you hear it as if he was normally speaking with his mouth.

“Simple question.” You cross your arms across your chest. “Do you care about the people you’ve hurt?!”

_“Yes, deeply.”_

“Then why are you looking at me like that?!”

_“Like what?”_

“Like!” And even before the words leave your lips you realize that you may have been nitpicking, but are too angry to stop yourself. “Like… you’re looking down your nose at me… like you’re bored…”

The dragon’s fur bristles up. All bushy and frazzled. Right from his head all the way to the tip of his tale. Stubborn, you stand your ground. Knowing full well that the dragon can’t help looking down his nose at you. Maybe you took it the wrong way– perhaps that’s just his face. You’re so angry, you’d use anything against him. 

He huffs out what looks like literal steam, and proceeds to lower himself. All the way until he’s on his belly and he’s resting his snout on his legs.

 _“Better?”_ he asks as if through clenched teeth.

“Better,” you mumble. 

_“Good.”_

“Thank you.”

 _“You are welcome,”_ he says with a long toothy smile that is meant to be comforting is, and is nothing short of terrifying. _“Please. Continue.”_

You look down on him now, feeling a little better. Better, that you can lower such a proud creature to the ground with just your words. Shortly you start to feel that smugness. The same smugness you were just shouting at him over, starts to wash over you, and you realize you don’t quite like the feeling.

You plop down on the ground. So that, here, you and the god are eye-to-eye. You much like this better. “I grew up in that house,” you say. “That house was in my family for generations. A lot of those houses had been through many generations.”

 _“They can be rebuilt,”_ he says. 

“Not the way they were!” you say. “Not with the little notches my parents made in the wood as I grew taller. Not with the giant black stain from the time I spilled my father’s ink pots. Or the creek in the floorboard that always punished me for trying to sneak back in the lazy way or…. or the way it smelled!”

 _“You can make new memories, make new messes.”_ You give him a dangerous look, he huffs air out of his nose. _“No excuses. Simply… trying to help you feel optimistic. That is all.”_

For the first time since you’ve dreamed about him, you feel a little bit of give, a small relax in your emotions. Enough for you to take a step back and speculate on everything with less blinding emotion. All the bite in his eyes is gone. Dare you even think it… but– he seems genuinely sorry. This matters to him.

And that’s when you realize: “You really are here… in my dreams… you’re real.”

 _“I’ve told you this,”_ he says. _“Many times.”_

“Never believed it.”

You both fall into a silence and you drift into a blank stare. Gradually flowers start to grow, right in the spot you’ve zoned in on. When they bloom, they’re strange but so beautiful. You cup one of them gently, feeling the silky delicate texture of the petals.

“They look like paper cranes,” you muse: completely white, shaped like a bird in flight with frayed wings, it’s the first thing that comes to mind.

_“Do you like them?”_

“Love them!” you say. “They’re gorgeous!”

You gasp as the one in your palm comes to life. It flutters, detaches it’self from the plant, and flies up. Staying stagnant before your eyes before landing on your forehead, where it slowly flaps its wings every now and then.

You go a little cross-eyed trying to look at it, then look to the dragon. You have something to say, just on the tip of your tongue. But a ray of sunlight blinds you as you look. You throw your arm over your eyes, closing them at the same time. Upon reopening your eyes the Sun is bleeding through your window and across your face, awake. 

As soon as you woke you began to question the validity of your dream. Second guessing your previous realization that the dragon really is visiting you. But the day has already started, and it’s moving on without you. Casting your dream aside as nothing but a dream you get on with your day.

As you arrive for work, Mrs. Ieyori is just coming back from the mountain and she has a message for you:

“Hanzo says that he doesn’t want you visiting on the mountain anymore.”

Your stomach drops. “Why?” 

“He’s almost done! One man, after little more than a month. Remarkable,” she says cheerily, easing your nerves. “He’d like to present it to you once it’s complete, how romantic.”

Heat rises in your cheeks. “I doubt he means it like that.”

She raises both of her eyebrows, wags a finger at you. “I’m an old, old lady,” she says. “I know when a man is trying to be romantic. That man,” she points towards the mountain, “is trying to be romantic.”

A long week goes by. Mrs. Ieyori goes up the mountain every morning and every evening. Doesn’t come back with much news, except to say that he needs just a little more time. Hanzo himself stops coming down from the mountain. You don’t like that one bit. Every night you stand at the foot of the trail, fighting the urge to stomp your way up there and tell him you’re too old for surprises.

Your rewarded one day, after Mrs. Ieyori’s evening drop off. She brings Hanzo with her. “I have something to show you,” he says offering you his arm.

Dark clouds gather overhead as you make your way up the mountain with butterflies fluttering widely in your belly. Lightning strikes in the distance, a few drops of rain hit your forehead. Your heart thumps fast, nervous for no reason you can pin down. Excited, too. Going on and on about how you still can’t believe he did this. You could have it much worse, but nothing beats having a place to call your own.

Shocking, what a week could do. The last time you saw it, it didn’t have a roof. It was still a mess. Now, now there’s a roof! It’s clean! You can hardly believe that the house is real. You approach slowly, like the place might disappear in a cloud of magic if you go too fast. Open the door and it slides open smoothly. Tears well up as you kick off your shoes and step inside. The inside’s furnished. The layout’s almost identical to the way it used to be. You don’t believe you could be more pleased.

“Your thoughts?” Hanzo asks from the open doorway.

You spin around, all lit up and smiling. “You—you built all of this!” Hanzo nods incredulously, takes a step inside. “I just… I can’t… I can’t believe what I’m seeing— _thank you_.”

“It was the least I could do.”

“No, no,” you say as you approach him. “This isn’t small, okay. I thought I’d be an old lady by the time I could afford the labor to rebuild.”

You want to ask him—beg him to let you in on where he comes from, who gave him his amazing physical strength and skills. Who instilled in him this unwavering work ethic? What’s he going to do now? From past experience you know prying shuts him down, closes him off, so you bottle it down. 

He bows slightly. “I am happy, you are happy,” he says even though he’s not smiling.

You’re overcome with an urge. A byproduct of all those late nights. Dinners that were never made to be romantic, but had tension anyway. As well as all the gratitude and happiness you’re feeling now that your standing under your very own roof. Add on that beautiful face of his, and you just have to kiss him.

You grab him by his neck, press your lips firmly against his own. Hanzo instantly reciprocates. Before your lips even meet his he’s grabbing onto your neck much firmer than your holding his. He leans into it, returning everything you’re giving him. One kiss turns into another and another. Each becoming more desperate and messy than the last. He wraps an arm around your waist and lifts you up against his body.

Thunder cracks overhead. You jump back, promptly giggle at how jumpy you are over thunder and lighting. “Sorry,” you say as you go back in for more.

Hanzo turns his face away, looking torn. He sets you back down, shaking his head. Grimaces as thunder rolls again.

“What’s wrong?” you ask.

He takes your hands. “Enjoy your home, I’ll pray the gods keep men like me out of your life.”

That sounds a whole lot like a goodbye to you, feels like one too. Hanzo squeezes your hands once. Lets them go and turns around to leave. If he thinks he gets to walk away that easily he’s sourly mistaken. 

You follow him out the door as thunder booms loudly, directly overhead. “Men like you?” you ask. “What do you mean, ‘men like you’?”

Lightning strikes, big and bright. Rain sprinkles down. Hanzo stops, holds out a hand. “Go back inside,” he demands. “It’s dangerous out here.”

You stop dead in your tracks. “Make me,” you say, staying planted out in the middle of the open. You look around wildly as the natural thunderstorm makes itself known once again. Taking brief notice of a detail you had missed upon walking up. Strange white flowers, in long, rectangular ceramic pots. 

His jaw grinds. “Be mature, go back inside.”

You forget the flowers. “What are you going to do now?” you ask desperately. “Go and end up in another town’s gutter? Stay. We already consider you a local.”

More of a local legend; another one to stick in the hat. The odd stranger who drank everyone at the local bar under the table, and then went and started building a house the next day. Came back down the mountain, day after day, and kept drinking them under the table. Everybody knows he’s a marvel; the majority’s too polite to call him out on it.

The most anyone ever said to Hanzo was: “The fuck’er you?! HUH?!” Brought to your ears by a very drunk man, losing his bet, two seconds from passing out.

You don’t miss the flicker of offense that dances across his features at the mention of ‘the gutter incident’ or the abrupt fear that alights his eyes. The things that happen next, happen far too fast for you to see. Hanzo’s and your hair bristles, standing on end. Hanzo lurching for you, changing into something else. Lighting striking right where you’re standing.

Except, you’re not standing there anymore. You’re— _thrown_ back inside. Your ears are ringing from the boom. For a moment you’re thrown right back to that night that the dragon brothers fought overhead and blew and burned half your town down. You all were so incredibly lucky no one died, so lucky it was only homes, only things. Only a few broken bones and scrapes. That the rain was there to put the fires out. 

You roll over onto your side and pick yourself up off the floor. Shaky arms and shaky legs make this hard. Opening your eyes makes it even harder. Panic wells in your chest. It’s— _him_. The Southwind dragon, rippling with tiny electrical currents all over his body.

You look around through teary eyes trying to find Hanzo. Don’t see him, and assume the worst. You snap back to the dragon. “What did you do?!” You run at him and start pushing on his big head trying to get him out of the way. “Move you monster! Move!” You keep pushing but he doesn’t budge, so you resolve to try climbing over him instead.

Hanzo thrashes his head to get you off. You kick him in retaliation.

 _“Ow!”_ he growls.

“Why’d you come back?!” you yell. “What kind of game are you playing?”

 _“Stop kicking me!”_ he demands. _“What are you throwing a fit about?”_

“You killed him!” you scream, on the verge of tears and a meltdown.

Hanzo suddenly realizes what has you so upset and rears back out of the doorway. Shows you there’s no body, no gore. He didn’t get crushed. He was, however, struck by the lighting but that’s nothing to a dragon who can make it whenever he feels like flying up and letting off some steam.

 _“You fool,”_ he says, _“I’m not dead.”_

You stand out of the porch, chest heaving, looking around and seeing no body. Stare at the dragon for a few long moments, processing everything that just happened, and putting together everything that’s happened over the past month and a half.

“Wow,” you say, shaking your head. “I really should have known.” Granted his voice changes drastically from one form to the other, you still feel it was clear, hindsight always is.

 _“You couldn’t fathom how sorry I am,”_ he says.

“Oh, really?” you ask. “For what in particular, hm?” 

_“Everything—the destruction, deceiving you. Encroaching on your slumber…”_ He inches towards you but stops when you flinch back. _“I had to start somewhere. Didn’t think I could start making up for my dishonor by being honest. Would you have allowed me to help if you knew?”_

Would you have been too prideful to accept his help? Maybe. You can’t look back into the past and see how things could have been walking down one path versus the other. You can only control what you do from this point on. 

Your silence is heavy enough for Hanzo to believe he knows what you want. _“I’ll leave you be,”_ he says.

“Wait! No…. stay. If you are as sorry as you say you are, stay,” you say. “Stay and help everyone else rebuild their homes. Redemption isn’t just one and done, you have a lot of work ahead of you. Finish what you’ve started.”

Hanzo approaches you, lowers his head so he’s not looking down on you but right in your eyes. _“Whatever you want, whatever you say, I will do it.”_

“Sure,” you mock. “If you say so.”

_“Test me if you wish.”_

You fight a smile, you’re not done being mad yet.Even so, you cup the front of his long jaw, lean forward and plant a kiss on his cold nose. His fur bristles as he lets off a sound… something akin to a cat’s purr. The more your heart slows, and the natural thunderstorm rolls on, the harder you find it to stay livid. He has a lot to prove. But the same side of you that picks up drunkards off the street, compels you to give him another chance…

…and cash in on his bold promise early.

“Let me ride you,” you say, stepping down from your porch.

_“Excuse me?”_

“Take me back down the mountain,”you say. “It’s dinner time and I’m hungry. Aren’t you?”

 _“Oh,”_ Hanzo says. _“Yes, I am.”_ He lowers his belly to the ground and you climb onboard. _“No funny business,”_ he demands. _”And hold on tight.”_


End file.
